……(father’s) day.

It happened again. The annual period of parental celebrations. Mother’s day came and went. Good. Sunday, Father’s Day. Meh. I’ve never been fond of them. I’ve had no reason to enjoy them. I often wish my parents were long dead so that I could mourn properly. I wish I could say, “when mom was alive…she” or “when dad was alive…he.” But just the same, they exist here, on this bubble, in their own lives, in their own worlds. I wonder if they ever really think of me. Most of the time, I don’t care. It’s easier that way.

From the peaceful, rejuvenating weekend, I was slung back into the cruel reality of my life, when upon logging into Facebook, I see a photo presented by one of my half-siblings. It showed, my father, my two brothers and one sister. The four of them, as happy as can be; In honor of Father’s day. They couldn’t be any more proud of him (so it would appear). They beamed of love and connectivity. It hurt to see. It reminded me of what I do not have – family…blood…connection.

I’m not mad at all. I actually smiled thinking, “well, I guess that’s how I’ll look when I’m his age.” He looks fairly well ,so I’m not concerned of my fate really. Levity….we all have our things…I’ve often heard, honor thy mother and father….but what of the child? The child that was left out in the wilderness, to fight off the hounds, left for dead. Where is that child’s honor?



June 8, 2016


…a house is not a home.

Four walls, a roof and a chair.

The strength to cut the tree,

the wit to dream up the design,

the patience to live.

Some have lost the keys to their front doors,

others have been foreclosed on.

“That one house on 45th and Jeffries has blue trim,

but the house over here on 33rd, ain’t got none. ”


“Home is where the….”

Clich├ęd statements woven from wives tales,

designed to sooth and placate the mind.

What is a home, if only just a structure to

eat, piss, shit and sleep in?


Who’s home now?

Knock three times.

Turn around.

Ring bell six times.

Turn around.


Four walls, a roof, a chair.

Watching through windowless walls until

Monday arrives from Friday.

There will be something to do then.

There will be purpose.